


The Gift

by OrilliaOrange, vehlr



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Idiots in Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4609785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrilliaOrange/pseuds/OrilliaOrange, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/pseuds/vehlr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassandra did not know what to get him. She wanted to show him that she cares, but they were walking that fine line between friends and something more, and what do you buy someone when you are in that situation?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift

She had needed to find Varric a gift.

It is such an out of character gesture for Cassandra, but by this point she had been wondering what to give Varric for months - ever since her birthday, when he had quietly upstaged everyone – and Dorian was still a little sour about it all. But she knew there was a lot between her and Varric. Too much for her gift to him to be anything less than perfect. It had to say all the things she could not quite find the right words for.

Cassandra did not know what to get him. She wanted to show him that she cares, but they were walking that fine line between friends and something more, and what do you buy someone when you are in that situation?

In the end, she realised that you do not buy anything. You give them better gifts – objects and moments and memories that cannot be bought. So she gives him a book. And it's filled with stories- not his, but stories from the Inner Circle, and letters from all his Kirkwall friends. They've been passing it around for months until it was finished.

They were waiting on two people for almost three months - her, who had no gift for words and desperately wanted to get it right, and Isabela, who had been sailing up to Antiva and had quite happened to miss the messages left for her

And finally, finally, the last collection from Isabela comes in and Leliana suggests a book binder in Denerim - but Cassandra knows that the elderly man in Kirkwall is important, that there is a reason Varric writes to him and sends him special orders, individual and personal orders, and she conspires to write to him - even if it takes a little longer

When the book finally comes back to her though – when she holds it in her hands and feels the leather binding and the weight of it – it is heavy. And she is a little scared. More than a little scared. Her nerves are on fire. And she begins to doubt - after all, it is as much from anyone else as it is from her, all their stories coming together like this...

But it is in her hands. She is present in every inch of it, and Maker she did not realize until now. It is terrifying, but... the corners of her mouth lift, fingers light over the spine of the book – it is good, too. Coming from her heart. And that was something. That had to be something.

It makes her laugh, in truth.

She has backed herself into a corner – she cannot be afraid of this, of the feelings it carries. Everyone knows about the book, and if it fails to appear at Varric's party...

She swallows, back straightening. She has faced down bears, demons, more dragons than most Pentaghasts would ever wish to, and yet this...

Well. He would find it funny, no doubt. And that makes her laugh. Another story to tell him - well, if she manages to make it through this one.

She smothers the brief wish that she had let the Inquisitor take the lead. But Varric is her - her _friend_ , she supposes. They seem doomed to always be on the edges of things, with one another. And whilst she might wish to teeter on the edge a little longer, she knows that there is little to be gained from hopeful wishing. No, if nothing else, he is her friend. And it is her friend's birthday, and she is going to be late - and he would notice, he always notices, and he would tease her about it for a week if she was not careful.

She is a little exasperated – with herself for being so easy for Varric to read, and with Varric for just always _knowing_ things. It seems like he only has to look at her, and she is stripped bare.

Cassandra's face flushes. _Not like that!_ she scolds herself.

... well, thinks a small part of herself, it would not be the worst thing - _No! Maker's breath, no!_

Dorian had been giving her looks all through the week when she'd begun to fear the book would not arrive from Kirkwall in time. Making little quips about what a romantic gesture it was.

It is stress, and Dorian's teasing, Cassandra tells herself. Otherwise she would never imagine what Varric's embrace would feel like.

Cassandra has to force herself to take a deep breath.

She has been taking more and more deep breaths at the thought of Varric recently. She knows it must be stress, knows it is just the pressure of this damned book -

Her hands tighten around the book.

It is not just the book. It was never just the book. But she is not a simpering maiden, and he is not a dashing hero, and real life is rarely that kind. They are friends, and it is a hard-won friendship at that.

Cassandra squares her shoulders, tucks the book into its box with no ceremony at all. It is a book, and it is her heart and she will not fear either. She has come too far to be stopped by her own hand.

He deserves her best, after all.

*

As she shuts her door, Cassandra wonders why it is that it is always Varric who brings her to these different heights. He has seen her at her worst, her most hurt and furious, and now her best. What she hopes is her best.

She does not linger on the thought - if she does, she will never make it down the steps.

She nearly does not, regardless. Varric has been putting his rogue skills to something Cassandra cannot really call "good use", since he is standing nearly at her elbow when she turns around.

To her unending mortification, she fumbles his gift in her surprise.

"Seeker, what's this?" And it is three words but it is more than enough to silence the ungainly noise in her throat and tighten her grip on the box. Her chest feels too tight, her arms too long. She was supposed to have a buffer, an audience, other people to share the credit. She is not supposed to feel like this. Not with him. Not here, in the corridor above the forge. What is he even doing here, anyway?

"You're late," he says. A further two words that she did not expect.

"I am _not!_ " she says, outraged. "I am merely...not early."

Varric raises one sardonic eyebrow.

She hates him. She hates that he has caught her off-guard like this - again, damn him, it is always him!

"You are supposed to be in the inn," she says sharply.

"Surrounded by friends and well-wishers," Varric agrees.

 _Maker_ , must he always be so flippant!

"Then why?"

His smile broadens, though for a moment he says nothing. The silence is infuriating - it always seems to be, with him.

"You were late," Varric says again. As though that should explain everything.

She opens her mouth -

\- and then closes it again. Swallows. Takes a deep breath - Maker, give me strength - and straightens.

"Well, now we are both late, and it is entirely your fault."

"Well if I hadn't had to go looking for you, Seeker..." Varric trails off meaningfully.

Maker's Grace she will have to kill him. On his birthday, too.

"Just -" Another deep breath, eyes closed. "Let us just go," she says, summoning patience from somewhere extremely deep inside herself. "You cannot miss your own party."

"Ruffles put a lot of effort into it," Varric concedes, as they head down the stairs.

At the door to the forge, he bows at the waist and waves her through first, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Her eyes narrow slightly. She had not been prepared for him, not like this, and now she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, as if there were some other plan in play -

She shakes her head slightly. Stress. It was just stress, and soon it would all be done and out in the open. She just needed to get to the inn and find something to drink. Preferably several somethings.

She squares her shoulders, brushing past him to leave. The door clicks shut behind them, and in the brisk Skyhold air, it is easier for her to let the irritation slide. Out here, there is room enough for her feelings.

Varric trails along at her side, quiet. It is a short enough walk to the Herald's Rest, but this sudden silence is unnerving.

"Varric?" His name is out of her mouth before her brain has even caught up.

"Yes, Seeker?" He smiles up at her, arms behind his back and in step with her, and she is not quite sure what she was going to say, only that she ought to say something. Her grip tightens on the gift, neatly tucked under her arm.

"Happy birthday," she says finally, weakly, but with a smile.

Varric looks startled, and Cassandra thinks it is not fair he should look so surprised. Nor that it should pull at her heart so. It is a brash gesture, but the urge overpowers her. Some strange quirk of her intuition tells her to do something, and she does. Varric is just as shocked as she is when her lips brush his temple, just above the first little bits of grey hair there.

She takes another deep breath, turning to face the door of the inn. Josephine would be going spare by now, no doubt. Varric was late, and -

Varric was late because _she_ was late. And something about that was altogether strange, but... altogether warming, in a way.

Varric makes a noise behind her, but the door is already open and Josephine is not angry, but there is a light of speculation in her eye Cassandra would rather not encourage. She holds the door open, gesturing with a nod of her head for Varric to lead the way. After all, it is his day. And if there is a strange look in his eyes, a falter in his step, it is quickly covered. Whatever it is gets lost in Varric's public persona. The tavern roars its greeting, the favoured son finally returned to them. It's clear someone's already broached one of the barrels of Marcher beer Cullen had shipped in.

It is easy for Cassandra to slip into the safety of the others, to vanish from his sight - oh, she knows she will have to come back, of course, will have to address that moment and present him with his gift and perhaps there will be more questions, but... for now, there is ale and wine in good measure, and a raucous joy to be found in that inn tucked away in the mountains, and she fully intends to let him enjoy it.

*

It is a very Varric party.

The noise and heat and sheer happiness in the inn is wonderful. Drinks flow freely, stories are told, and several bad attempts at dirty limericks are made.

He is in his element, laughing and drinking, and making the only successful go at composing a limerick on the fly - and secretly, she is not sure she had not heard him mutter that one before. But she is not about to say as much because that would be terrible to admit for many reasons... least of all that she had heard him.

So instead she watches the mad swirl of the party, and if that means watching Varric, then that is what it means. And that is not necessarily the _worst_ thing, that small part of her admits, with the taste of good wine on her tongue.

Before she knows it though, it is time for the cake – in the shape of a book, and Cassandra has to laugh – and presents. And she is quite sure she does not want to go first - especially with Dorian's look of sheer glee and Josephine's questioning gaze - but the box sits heavy on her lap, and if she thinks about it too much she ends up reaching for her drink and she cannot give him this whilst blind drunk, Maker, the embarrassment, put the drink _down!_

Her glass clatters against the table, and of course that is when the party chooses to go quiet. The loud thunk catches Varric's attention, and when he sees her, Cassandra knows she is in trouble.

She swallows, hands coming to rest around the box, eyes dropping from his gaze to the gift. _Oh_. Her hands are careful around the edges, looking up again to meet him with a slight smile. _Okay_.

And her heart is hammering in her chest and she is quite sure there is no going back from this precipice -

\- but she pulls herself to her feet, because this has all been for him, and she is not afraid. Not anymore.

Varric's gaze tracks her progress to the head of the table. Despite her nerves, Cassandra cannot help but notice the way his eyes and his posture do not match. It is quite strange, really, that nobody else has noticed. Like a secret in plain sight.

That brooding look follows her until she stands at his side. In her hands, the box with the book seems terribly plain, but it is too late to think about that now. Instead, she places it in front of Varric. Her fingers stroke the edge, before she recalls herself and tucks her hands safely behind her back.

With a little shock, she realizes that everyone is watching her avidly. Expecting her to say a few words.

She takes a deep breath. Counts. _One. Two_.

"I, ah." _Three_. "I had a lot of help," she explains, "so by rights this is from all of us, really. But I - I hope you like it. You are, ah..." And then she smiles, and a surprising little chuckle escapes her. "You are impossible to arrange gifts for, you know that?"

Varric affects an innocent look, but his hands are already running over the box and Cassandra considers herself lucky that her little speech lost out to the allure of his present.

When he opens the box, Cassandra is standing close enough to hear the soft intake of breath, his exhaled -

" _Oh_."

And that should not grip her heart so tightly, but it does – she has never heard him sound so _soft_. She itches to step back, to fall away into the crowd, but equally she has to know - has to know that he likes it, that he is not underwhelmed, that he -

\- that he _understands_ it, this gift she has given.

He picks the book up, tenderness in his every movement. Strokes the leather cover, fingers running over the stitches in the binding, the ribbed spine. When he opens it to the first page, Cassandra can actually feel the moment when he understands what she has done. The first page bears all the signatures of those who contributed.

"Cassandra-"

"It is, uhm - I mean, Isabela was _quite_ enlightening, and -" She laughs again, awkward as she shifts her weight. "Well, it is probably a private affair, really. But they are your stories." And it is there again - that urge, that fleeting desire, his temple within reach - but she swallows it whole, stepping back.

It is easy to fade away, to let the crowd of curious onlookers push her to the back of the room. Varric flips through the book, reads choice excerpts (mostly from Isabela and Sera who seem to have gotten into a competition), and even when Josephine reminds him that there are other gifts, the book stays close to his side.

And she retreats to the safety of her table, hands clasped tightly around her drink. And Dorian is looking positively smug but she pays him no mind - she had passed her private test, and he had called her by name, and that was something.

Quite _what_ , she did not know.

*

The party rages on long into the night, but Cassandra retires early. Not by her own standards, of course. But it has been a long night, and a longer week, waiting for this night. On the first floor, Varric still holds court at the long table, and seems to be fully absorbed in trying to play three games of Wicked Grace simultaneously.

It is adorable.

Cassandra stops, and stares accusingly at her empty glass. Clearly she has drunk far too much tonight.

But - well, if she cannot be honest with herself even in her cups, then what is the point? Varric is an annoying, exasperating, pain in the ass. But he is a loyal man, a brave man, and an overwhelmingly lovable man. And she is - here she shies away from the honest truth - she is extremely fond of him.

She should go up and say goodnight to him, really. But braving the crowds is just a little too much for her, and she is only a little unsteady on her feet as she hauls herself towards the door.

The fresh air is wonderful, and she lingers outside the door of the inn for a moment, leaning back against a barrel propped up by the training area.

Despite the green, the stars are still beautiful.

"Arrive late, leave early?" a sarcastic voice says from behind her. "And without even a goodbye? Seeker, I'm _hurt_."

She cannot stop the smile on her lips, eyes closing. "You were busy." The excuse is hollow, even to her. "Three games at once. Is that a record?"

"Nah," Varric says. "No shit, there I was back in the Hanged Man - Seeker are you laughing?" He sounds incredulous though Cassandra is well aware she has laughed in front of him before.

Her eyes open, a glance thrown over her shoulder at him. "And if I am?" It is ridiculous, really. Bravery from a bottle. But it is his birthday, she supposes. Ridiculous is par for the course. Besides that, he makes it so easy to _be_ ridiculous. To be light of heart.

"I'd have to say if you were," Varric says, "That you should do it more often."

There is something there, below the surface of his words. But it is late at night, and Cassandra has been under so much strain she cannot tell truth from wishful thinking.

"I laugh when there's reason to, Varric."

She watches him as he sidles closer, close enough to touch if she dared. But for now her fingers tighten around the rim of the barrel.

"There's always a reason," he offers. And it is not quite true, and they both know it, but she is happy to concede the point.

Silence stretches between them, Varric seemingly content to enjoy the fresh night air.

"Did you enjoy your gift?" Cassandra asks. Because she needs something to say, because she needs to know.

Hopes he understood.

He considers the question for a long time, before reaching out with an open hand.

She swallows. Uncurls her fingers from the wood. Meets him halfway, tentative still. His hands are worn, warm, every inch like him - kind and gentle and inviting despite herself.

"Varric?"

Maker, she should savour this moment- Varric Tethras at a loss for words. But she cannot. Too lost in the way his hands feel against hers, still a little surprised at herself. Neither of them bother to speak. Varric's thumbs stroke her skin, an absent-minded sort of gesture.

"One hell of a birthday gift, Seeker," he says at last.

Her heart sinks. Unreasonably, since she had no reason to expect he would-

"But you're a helluva woman."

Cassandra snorts out a laugh at that. "That might be the first time anyone has said such a thing of me."

His fingers tighten around hers for a second, quick enough that she might have imagined it, but he does not pull away.

"Fools," he murmurs. And he could be talking about the others, but there is something else there. Something more close to home.

She dare not linger on the thought. It has been a long week, and she is content to remain silent with him a little longer.

"Varric," she asks finally, quiet despite the noise from the inn. "Why did you come and get me, earlier?"

It was a thought that had tugged at her for a while. He had made himself late, after all.

He does something odd. In the dim light from the tavern, Cassandra swears Varric looks awkward.

"You were late," he says again and, really, Cassandra is getting tired of that.

"I was _not_ late, Varric. I simply was not early. We still arrived exactly on time," she points out. "Well. _Mostly_ on time."

Varric's hand grips hers a little tighter. "You're never late. You're punctual to a fault. Obsessively early, actually."

She frowns. "I am _not_ obsessively -" She lets the point drop, instead turning back to his avoidance. "My being... not early... should not be that much of a concern. After all, Dorian is nearly always late to everything." He had, however, been there before her. And she could hardly explain her delay, really. _Sorry I was late, I was having a crisis of the soul over a book._ Laughable.

Varric huffs out a laugh. "Sparkler's a great guy. But if _he_ doesn't show up on time I don't worry that-"

Cassandra can hear the exact moment Varric realizes he is confessed to worrying about something.

Implying that he had worried when she had been late.

The puzzle pieces slide together in her brain and Cassandra feels like a prize idiot. Still, the thought is so... so in tune with what she had been hoping for that she doubts.

Her fingers tighten around his.

"You thought... that I might not...?" And she feels the fool, all of a sudden, for being so wrapped up in worrying over his book all week - he must have noticed, must have assumed it was something else entirely, that he might have offended her -

"It was the book." The words are out of her mouth before she can think, and she rushes to qualify them. "This week, I mean. I thought it might not arrive in time, and then it turned up this afternoon and it was a relief but also -" She catches herself, taking a deep breath. Maker take you, loosened tongue! "I was... worried you might not like it," she says lamely.

Her heart thumps in her chest, loud enough that Varric must surely hear.

"Worried I wouldn't _like_ it?" Varric repeats, slowly. As though he could not quite believe his ears.

"It seemed...foolish," Cassandra admits softly. "You are... I would not want to disappoint you." And that is an admission of the wine, she is sure - though the warmth it had provided is gone, the haze that had lingered in the corners of her mind too clear now.

Perhaps she had no excuse to fall back on.

" _Disappoint_ me?" Varric barks out a laugh.

Cassandra wants to bristle, her first reaction is to yank her hand away.

Varric recaptures it in an instant.

"Seeker. You just gave me-" He stops, collects himself, and they both silently agree to ignore the break in his voice.

She waits – she will wait as long as it takes, heart too loud in her chest, because she _knows_ what she gave him. Knows it more and more the longer he holds her hand. She knew it the moment the book arrived, knew it the moment he let out that soft _oh_ of surprise, knew it the second he stepped out here.

But she does not know if _he_ really knows. So she waits.

"Thing is," Varric says "I don't know if you meant to give it, or if you did."

Cassandra's muscles stiffen. "If I did?" she says, cautiously.

"I hope you did. Because I want it. It's the best thing anyone's ever given me and-" the stream of words, so unlike Varric, comes to a sudden halt.

It Is a dangerous feeling, hope. But it burns in her chest now, quickening her breath and setting her nerves alight.

"If I did?" she asks again, and the waver in her voice could not be missed, her eyes not quite making it past his boots.

Varric closes the space between them, inserts himself into her field of vision.

"If you did, then-" he halts.

It seems like this conversation never stops stuttering, going in fits and spurts.

"Cassandra," Varric says. "I want it. You. If that's what you meant by...ah. The gift."

Surely he can hear it. Surely he can hear what he is doing to her heart - it threatens to tear from her chest, it is beating so hard. But that hope, that precious hope has caught flame and taken her breath away with his words.

They are hand in hand, on the edge of the precipice, and he is asking her to -

"Yes."

She jumps.

"I mean - that _is_ what I meant."

"Thank the Maker," Varric breathes.

Cassandra smothers a laugh. Her heart soars- instead of falling from the edge of the precipice, she flies.

Varric draws her in closer, lets go of her hands to touch her waist instead, to gently curve his palms over the flare of her hips.

"You really are a hell of a woman, Seeker," he says.

Cassandra smacks his shoulder when he leers up at her.

"Ass."

Still. He has not quite reciprocated, and Cassandra wants to hear it, wants to know for sure that he feels the way she does. Her fingers curl tentatively over his shoulders, careful and reverent when they brush against the soft skin and short hair at his nape.

"Varric..."

And she wants to know but she does not want to _ask_ \- wants the words to be given freely, a gesture of equal measure.

"Seeker," he swallows thickly. His eyes do not meet hers, and she does not dare breathe. Her fingers still. The entire night seems to hold its breath around them. Varric's fingers wrap round her wrist, and she lets him move her hand, until it rests above his heart. His tunic is warm beneath her skin, and beneath that, the rapid tattoo of his heartbeat.

The smile he offers her is bashful.

 _Oh_ -

She lifts her hand, cupping his chin and meeting his eyes. Her own smile is soft, different to those he had seen before, she knows. She had kept them hidden, so scared was she that he could not possibly regard her in such a way...

But he did. Andraste, he _did_. And the stress and fear and worry melt away, her heart light.

"Happy birthday, Varric," she murmurs, lowering her lips to graze his.


End file.
